


What They Don't Understand About Birthdays

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Danny is too, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Steve's grieving, gratuitous snuggling and falling asleep on each other, post 5x07, tw: references to torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: It’s a Tuesday, the day Steve kills Wo Fat. And as it happens, it’s Tuesday again before Danny leaves his side.AKA Danny spends the week at Steve's house, post 5x07. Honestly, after Matty, he needs it just as much as Steve does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _Eleven_ by Sandra Cisneros, who is an exquisite writer and an amazing person, according to a friend of mine who was lucky enough to work with her once. Jealous! Anyway, the work is quoted further in chapter 2.
> 
> My longest H50 fic yet, because I just couldn't end it. Really must get myself back to the Musketeers and wrap up my WIPs there!

It’s a Tuesday, the day Steve kills Wo Fat.

It’s a Tuesday the day Danny finds him, shaking, bleeding, all but cross-eyed—but _alive._

And as it happens, it’s Tuesday again before Danny leaves his side.

That first night’s bad. They get him to the hospital, hook him up to fluids and oxygen and a hundred and one sensors, but that’s about it; without knowing what he was given, it’s safer to just let him detox, they say.

So he detoxes. Lies there shaking, gasping, while poison and adrenaline flood out of him in sweat and puke and tears.

A few minutes in, Danny takes his hand. An hour later he gives up, fits himself into the skinny hospital bed and holds Steve’s body safely against his own.

Steve’s shaking so bad he can hardly hold his head up. Shaking so bad he can hardly hold the emesis bag to his mouth to vomit, so Danny does it for him, praying Steve won’t remember the indignity of being too weak to puke without assistance. Seeing Steve this way is something Danny won’t ever forget. Seeing, hearing, _feeling_ it all as Steve thrashes with whole-body retches and the Ikea-blue plastic bag fills with overwarm liquid.

And then there’s the crying.

At first it’s just tiny episodes of silent tears, but by the small hours of the morning it’s devolved into on-and-off hysterics. The kind of sobs that screw your eyes shut, gape your mouth open. Those harsh, awful sobs that almost sound like speech, that almost sound like you’re trying to talk out your grief but the words don’t exist. That might honestly make your throat bleed. The kind of sobs that you’re only supposed to do alone, in the shower, or else speeding down the highway fast enough that the cars going in the other direction can’t get a good look.

Danny just holds him, cries with him.

Because Jesus, this is _Steve McGarrett_ , and Danny’s seen him choked up once or twice before maybe but he’s never seen him _weep_. He’s seen him hurt before but he’s never seen him _broken_. And Danny kind of can’t take it.

What the unholy _fuck_ did that bastard do to him, anyway?

It’s got to be 2:00 at least by the time exhaustion finally wins, and Steve conks out. Danny slips from the bed. He curls up in the small, stiff armchair and falls asleep too, still holding Steve’s hand.

*

When he wakes up, it’s Wednesday, and Steve’s—okay.

Well, no, of course he’s not okay. He’s concussed and hungover and beat to shit, and traumatized by something that Danny hasn’t even begun to poke at yet. But he’s Steve again. He submits to a fresh barrage of tests, answers questions without secrecy or embellishment. Eats a full breakfast without complaint. Gets mildly pissy when told he can’t go for a walk, and no, he really shouldn’t watch TV either, so he ropes Danny into playing cards and then, when this stirs up the headache, reading to him quietly from an outdated gossip rag.

Overall the tests come back pretty good. His lungs are clear, good news in light of the waterboarding—oh yeah, the guy was fucking _waterboarded_ —and the concussion from the beating—Steve says it involved a fire extinguisher?— seems mild. His bloodwork is normalizing. And when they ask how he’s feeling he says calmly that he’s felt better, but he’s fine, and honestly he’d really just like to sleep in his own bed tonight.

The doctors consent pretty easily.

They let him go with cream for the burns and antibiotics to ward off pneumonia, and stern orders—more to Danny than to Steve himself—to come back immediately if there’s any cough or shortness of breath. Beyond that, rest. A week at least, two would be better, of no exercise, no driving, and definitely no work.

And at first, it seems like he’s going to listen. Danny has Chin and Kono drop his car off, and he takes Steve home, where Steve trudges upstairs, showers, and falls into bed, though the sun hasn’t set yet.

“’night, Danno,” he huffs, as Danny closes the door. And Danny hears the trust in his voice, knows that Steve knows that he’ll still be there in the morning, and that helps. Danny makes himself a quick dinner and puts himself to sleep in the guest room.

*

Thursday’s not so pretty. Despite his utter exhaustion Danny sleeps like shit, and Steve, with the same kind of sixth sense that Grace had as a toddler, takes this as his cue to cause as much noise as possible.

It’s maybe 4:00 when Danny wakes, less than three hours after falling asleep. And he wakes to a sound that can only be Steve falling down the stairs. But by the time he struggles out of his fog and his blankets, and out into the hallway, Steve’s nowhere in sight. Danny finds him making coffee in the kitchen. He dropped something, is all he’ll say, and try as he might Danny can’t get him to admit that what he dropped was, in fact, his fucking _body_.

Danny tries to coax him back to bed, but he won’t go. When he more or less chugs two cups of coffee, Danny can’t see it as anything other than rebellion, this time like a toddler refusing to take a nap.

Danny gives in, gets some coffee for himself.

Steve can’t sit still, but he also can’t really do anything: TV makes his head hurt, so does reading, and Danny threatens to sit on him if he tries to go out for a run. (Steve could push him off, of course, but neither of them mention that.)

It’s just getting light out when Steve changes tack, goes out to the garage to work on the car.

Danny thinks about trying to take a nap, but in the end he follows. In part it’s curiosity as to how working on a car doesn’t hurt Steve’s head when watching infomercials does.

That’s an answer he gets quickly: it does hurt his head. It’s less than fifteen minutes before Steve slides out from under the car, looking dizzy and defeated. Instead of going back inside, though, he produces a cloth and a bottle of wax and begins to shine the exterior in slow, laborious circles.

Danny sits in the passenger seat and watches. He tries a few times to start a conversation, but Steve’s polishing the broken old car with 100% focus, like it’s an order direct from the president himself.

Sooner or later Danny’s stomach starts growling. He goes back inside— finding the sun bright out the windows— and sets about making breakfast. Steve had next to no appetite yesterday, but he also didn’t do much to earn one. He’s moving around more, now, so it seems only logical he’ll be hungrier; with this in mind, Danny makes pancakes and bacon, and a goddamn truckload of scrambled eggs. Table set, he goes back to the garage.

Steve’s not polishing anymore, though the cloth’s still in his hand; he’s sitting folded up on his rusty creeper, knees to his chest. He looks _miserable_. Near to tears, almost, staring at the oily floor in perfect stillness, until he sees Danny and cracks a weak smile.

“Breakfast,” Danny says, voice just as feeble. He gets car polish on his hands helping Steve stand up from the creeper, and he rubs it between his fingers as he ushers Steve inside.

Steve eats, at least, so Danny takes that small victory. He’s not totally sure that Steve has worked up an actual appetite, per se, but at least he seems to acknowledge that his body is hungry. He eats a pile of eggs and bacon, then picks at a chocolate chip pancake.

Danny kills the rest of the pancakes, reveling in the stress-eating while he does so but regretting it soon when the carbs hit him hard and all but demand he nap at least an hour or two.

Believe it or not, he gets Steve to agree. So they curl up in the living room, Danny on the sofa, Steve in his recliner, and Danny drifts off feeling hopeful that the day will get better from there.

*

Naturally it doesn’t. Danny wakes up sometime later to find the recliner empty. Steve’s not in the garage, not in the shower, not in bed; he’s not in the kitchen, not on the lanai or on the beach, but when Danny goes outside to check around better, he sees something that makes his stomach flip.

Steve’s in the water.

Steve’s in the fucking water.

Too concussed to read a book and the man has thrown himself into the goddamn Pacific Ocean so far out he’s barely a speck in the Hawaiian waves.

Danny’s up to his knees before he knows it. Then his hips, then his chest.

What are the odds Steve’s actually drowning? How do they weigh against the odds that he’ll ever forgive Danny for thinking he’d drown? Fuck that; that hardly matters, Danny decides, and begins to swim out to him.

But what are the odds he can get Steve back to shore?

The ocean’s just so fucking _big_ , is the thing; they could both drown in it a hundred million times and never even get to the bottom. Steve’s a fucking sailor, right? He knows what he’s doing? But he’s sick, he’s still so _sick_ , and Danny can feel the weight of panic settling, anchoring him worse than the sodden clothes that tug against his body.

He can’t do it. He can’t get to him.

Steve’s too far out. He won’t hear. But Danny screams his name anyway, just fucking shrieks at him, so hard his own vision goes reddish grey at the edges.

And then, finally: Steve starts swimming back.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!” Danny howls, as Steve comes within range. He follows him back and catches the sand as soon as he can; stands there shaking until Steve finally gets his own legs beneath him. Then he stomps along behind him. “You son of a bitch, _what the_ _FUCK_?! I can’t leave you alone for five—you went _swimming_?”

But the response never comes. A few feet from the edge Steve pitches forward, hands braced on knees—and vomits into the water.

“Jesus _shitting_ Christ,” Danny sobs, and splashes to Steve’s side. With a hand gripped to his elbow he all but drags Steve onto the beach, where Steve falls to all fours and continues retching, bringing up the rest of his breakfast all over the smooth, wet sand.

“Fucking _CHRIST_!” It hurts to scream but it doesn’t hurt enough, so he screams a few more times, wordlessly. Steve isn’t paying attention. He hasn’t even looked up, just completely at the mercy of that awful kind of heaving that wrings your stomach out like a wet rag.

Danny wants to rub his back; he doesn’t. Instead he kicks Steve’s leg and shrieks again, backs a few feet away and plops down into the surf, shaking too badly to catch his breath. “What’s wrong?” he hears himself blubber. “Stevie, what’s wrong?”

He can’t do this. Fucking hell, he cannot do this.

At long last Steve manages to stop, and slumps off to the side, landing on his ass a foot or two away from his revolting puddle. “Guh,” he pants, finally looking over at Danny. There’s wet sand caked on his knees; there’s vomit on his chin and his rash guard. “Go’ dizzy.”

“Dizzy.” Danny’s voice comes out sounding even rawer than it feels. “You got dizzy.”

“’cussion,” Steve mumbles.

“Concussion. Yeah, I know. Concussions make you dizzy. How f-far out were you, when you got dizzy?”

Steve shrugs.

“I hate you,” Danny tells him, and hopes that Steve can tell he actually kind of means it this time.

He leaves him there. Leaves Steve sitting between the water and his swath of puke-covered sand, stomps inside and upstairs and throws his dripping clothes all over the guestroom floor. Scrubs himself dry of ocean and tears. Yanks on a t-shirt and boxers and then goes down to the kitchen to look out the window and see if Steve’s gone and died.

He hasn’t. He’s just sitting, staring dumbly out across the water; Danny watches him until eventually he gets to his feet and stumbles inside, past Danny without a word, up the stairs and out of view. The shower turns on, then off a few minutes later.

By the time Steve comes downstairs Danny’s on the sofa, glaring at the black TV screen, mashing a pillow violently in his lap. Steve sits beside him. It feels like the wrong end of a magnet being forced too close, and Danny leans away, near to fuming again.

Steve shrinks back the slightest bit, and rubs his forehead. “You don’t have to stay, Danny.”

“I don’t have to stay? An hour ago you almost killed yourself!”

“I didn’t almost kill myself.”

“What would you have done? If I hadn’t been there?”

Steve scowls. “Held my own hair back?”

“What?”

“What did you actually do, Danny? You—you yelled at me—“

“I _yelled_ at you?”

“And then you stomped off!”

“What would you liked me to have done, Steven?” Danny lets his voice go mockingly sweet for a moment.

“Nothing! That’s my point: you don’t have to stay!”

“You don’t want me to stay?”

“You have Grace this weekend, and I don’t want you to miss again—“

He breaks off.

Two weeks ago Danny’d missed his weekend with Grace because he’d been back in Jersey.

He’d been burying Matty.

Danny forces himself to exhale, forces the breath to come out smoothly even though he kind of wants to burst into tears again, then and there.

Steve sighs, crosses his arms. “I don’t _not_ want you to stay.”

“Well.” He takes another careful breath. “Would it be okay if Grace stayed here?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, before Danny even finishes the question. “You know I’d love that.”

“Okay.” The tension between them just kind of disperses. “Let’s do that, then.”

Without the anger to keep it at bay, exhaustion rushes back over Danny; that nap might as well not have happened at all. He hugs the pillow against his belly and sinks back into the couch. Steve tries to do the same, but winces; instead he folds forward, rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Babe,” Danny sighs, watching Steve breathe carefully. “How’s your stomach?”

Steve shrugs a little. “Nah’ good.”

“You want some ginger ale?”

“Mm. Mm-hm.”

“You want some toast?”

“Nah’ righ’ now,” Steve huffs. Danny pats his shoulder as he stands to go into the kitchen.

He’s back a few minutes later, flat ginger ale in hand. Steve takes a few careful sips before he passes it back and curls up miserably, not upright but not quite lying down either. Danny gets him a blanket (and a trashcan) and waits it out with him from the other end of the sofa.

But he doesn’t get sick again; little by little he relaxes, until eventually he’s stretched out, feet pressed to the side of Danny’s thigh. Mindlessly Danny rubs his ankle.

The morning’s drained both of them, it seems, and they spend the rest of the day like this, not sleeping, but not really doing anything else, either. Danny prods Steve into conversation a few times, but mostly leaves him alone. It’s enough, just to sit silently in his presence; he doesn’t need more.

In the late afternoon, Steve’s stomach starts growling. He doesn’t seem thrilled by the prospect of eating, but he shuffles after Danny into the kitchen and sits on the counter while Danny makes him toast. He gets down two pieces and a yogurt, then drags himself back to the living room.

Danny makes a sandwich and eats it in the kitchen, then goes back to find Steve in his recliner, staring gloomily at the ceiling. Danny goes and stands at his side.

“Didn’t do anything,” Steve grumbles, once Danny’s there. “All day.” Danny sighs, resists the urge to run his hand through Steve’s hair.

“You did, babe. You healed. Maybe you’re sittin’ there being bored, but your body’s workin’ hard. It’s healing.”

“I guess. Hey, I might sleep here.”

It’s not even 7:00 yet.

“’kay,” Danny agrees, putting a hand to Steve’s shoulder. “You need anything?”

“No. Thanks, Danno.”

Danny gives him the blanket anyway, then goes upstairs, showers all the salt crust out of his hair and gets into pajamas.

Fuck, it’s not even dark out yet. But Steve needs rest, and he’s in the room with the only TV, and it’s not like Danny’s going to leave or anything. So he curls up in bed. His alarm won’t go off for another twelve hours, and lying in bed for that long, that’s got to guarantee at least a solid six hours’ sleep, right?

*

Apparently it doesn’t. By the shadows on the floor Danny watches the sunset, moonrise, moonset, sunrise, and in that whole time if he sleeps three hours he’s lucky. Still he shuts off his alarm, stays in bed. Doesn’t move, save for the bathroom, until a quiet knock rouses him sometime around 10:00. Then at last he gets up to find Steve in the hallway, wearing fresh clothes, smiling almost nervously.

“I cut up a bunch of fruit,” he says, instead of _good morning_. “Let’s sit on the lanai.” He leaves before Danny can respond.

To be fair, though, it’s not like there’s any doubt about Danny following.

Still in pajamas, teeth unbrushed, Danny shuffles out to the lanai and finds it empty; he stands by the banister, looks out over the water until he hears footsteps behind him.

A bunch of fruit, Danny sees, means an actual shit ton in Hawaiian. Steve comes back up carrying a fucking popcorn bowl literally full to the brim with chunks of pineapple, papaya, guava, and mango, with a pile of funny little rambutans in the center.

“Appetite back?” Danny teases, plopping onto the patio sofa. His own has been unexpectedly stirred up at the sight, possibly since it’s already been cut for him (though he spares a moment to shiver about Steve alone with a knife.)

“Eh. Not really.” Steve settles at his side with the bowl in between them. “Just, a lot of it was about to go bad. Haven’t really gone grocery shopping in a while.”

“Normally I’d call you uncivilized for that,” Danny muses. “But I guess you get a pass. This time.”

Steve’s smile is kind of brittle, but it seems real enough.

They lapse into silence, then, Steve picking at the fruit while Danny absolutely tears through it. Steve’s right; it’s overripe. The pineapple falls apart in his fingers and the mango’s been cut irregularly, obviously avoiding some bad spots, but everything still tastes fine. Maybe even sweeter than normal, Danny thinks.

It’s cool for O’ahu that morning and out on the lanai, Steve at his side, fruit juice sticky on his hands, Danny almost feels okay. Not that he forgets the past month, of course. Just that he feels— calmer, somehow, like maybe he’s actually the kind of person who can handle these things. Who can live through them, come out still breathing.

Maybe this counts as the first tiny inkling of acceptance, though there’s no denying it’s depression that’s still got him firmly in its grasp. But this—this is a nice development. This is something that a normal, psychologically okay guy can do: eat breakfast on his best friend’s patio, breath in the calm, humid air.

He hopes Steve’s feeling a little of the same peace. At the moment he’s gone still, staring out at the ocean, a half-peeled rambutan forgotten between his fingers.

Danny swipes it, finishes removing the spines, gives it back. Steve doesn’t seem to notice it until he’s already holding it; then he pops it in his mouth and chews carefully, spitting the seed out a moment later.

“You gonna tell me what’s up?” Danny picks one of the last pieces of guava, bites it in half.

“What’s up is what’s up.” Steve flicks the seed over the balcony.

“That’s half the truth and you know I know it.” Danny finishes the guava chunk before continuing. “The stuff with your mom? And Wo Fat?”

“I mean, that sure as hell took a minute to process. But I think it’s processed now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Not that, if you say so. But babe, listen to me.” He looks over, tries and fails to catch Steve’s eye.  
“I know there’s something you haven’t told me, and I just—I think you’ll feel better if you do.”

Steve’s going to deny it, of course—except that he doesn’t.

“Acknowledged. But—not right now, Danno. I’m beat, man.”

“Okay.” The conversations far from over— so far from over, it hasn’t even started— but apparently it’s not starting right this second. “That’s okay. Hey, the best thing you can do right now is just relax.” At this, Steve nods, and leans back against the cushions.

Danny has another few pieces of fruit before he stops, stomach aching a little from all the sweetness, lips tingling from the pineapple. It’s around this time, too, that he realizes Steve’s asleep. Moving quietly, Danny switches places with the bowl, putting him right at Steve’s side; he leans his head on Steve’s shoulder, curls towards him a bit, and tries to feel as okay as he felt ten minutes ago.

*

Danny drifts, half aware. He hears Steve sigh now and then as he cycles through sleep, and yet it’s not until Danny actually opens his eyes that he realizes Steve’s head has come to rest atop his own. By then it’s too late. He’s already stirred, woken Steve, who sits up and cracks his neck, then smiles over, still looking pretty spent.

“How much’d’you sleep las’ night?” Danny yawns, wiping tacky fingers on his pajama bottoms, to no avail.

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Not much. Nap was nice.” He stretches his arms, more joints popping and cracking with deliberation. “Man, I gotta be careful not to get used to them.”

“Right, right, you might turn into a normal human,” Danny drawls. This earns him a scowl, but there’s no heat behind it. In fact Steve looks quietly content as he stretches his legs to crack his knees and ankles, then pulls the fruit bowl into his lap.

“You ate the pineapple,” he says, smiling. Danny manages not to roll his eyes.

“I don’t _not_ like pineapple. I’m just opposed to being bombarded by it from every angle.”

“Mm. Hey, you wanna watch a movie? I think my head’s okay enough.”

So they transfer from the outside couch to the inside couch, and assume more or less the same position, only it’s Steve who puts his head on Danny’s shoulder first this time. Because of the height difference he has to lean quite a bit, and his weight presses warmly along Danny’s side.

It doesn’t escape Danny that Steve spends half the movie with his eyes closed. Still the sound doesn’t seem to bother him, so that’s got to be good. In fact there’s been a handful of good signs today, not the least of which is that Steve hasn’t tried to drown himself. Instead he made fruit salad, took a nap, watched a movie.

And Jesus _Christ_ , has he ever been helping himself to the physical affection. He’s always been a sort of casual-touch-y type person— even though sometimes that seemed at odds with the rest of him— but today? Holy shit. By the time the credits roll he’s gone beyond just resting his head on Danny’s shoulder to honestly _snuggling_ him, hugging Danny’s arm, worrying Danny’s sleeve between his fingers.

“How’s your head?” Danny asks, as he clicks off the screen.

“Okay. Not bad.”

“Whaddyou feel like doin’ now?”

Steve nuzzles Danny’s shoulder a little, then goes still again. “Can we just sit for a little while longer?”

“Mm. Sure, babe.”

This gives way quickly to Steve taking his second nap of the day: a solid two and a half hours of snoring quietly against Danny’s neck, which is really kind of nice, at least until the last half hour or so when Danny realizes that he _really_ needs to pee.

Luckily Steve wakes before it’s an actual emergency. Still he steals his arm back and leaps from the sofa pretty much the second Steve wakes, drowsy laughter following him as he dashes to the bathroom.

“Well it’s your goddamn sofa I woulda pissed on,” Danny snips, as he comes back in a moment later. “Good sleep?”

“Mm? Yeah.”

“Good to see you sleeping. You haven’t been getting enough.” Which is definitely the pot calling the kettle black, but Steve just shrugs. “Don’t shrug at me,” Danny scolds. “Okay. It’s almost five, and even though I thought I would never be hungry again after consuming literally three pounds of fruit this morning, I am. What say we do early dinner and early bed again?”

Steve pulls a face. “I can’t remember the last time I was this—sedentary.”

“Ooh, big word, sticker for you. You were beat to shit, asshole, like literally three days ago. I thought we’d had this conversation already. Besides, Grace’ll be here tomorrow, so not much sittin’ still’s gonna happen then.”

At the mention of Grace the slightly dimming smile on Steve’s face returns to full brightness, and Danny’s belly goes warm. “You’re a doof. What do you want for dinner?”

“Mm. Toast?”

“You nauseous again?”

“No. I just like toast. Maybe toast and eggs? Veggies and stuff in the eggs?”

“That’s an omelet, babe,” Danny informs him, and Steve shrugs again.

Danny leaves him stretched out on the sofa. In the kitchen he rummages through the fridge and freezer for omelet fillings, finds cheddar, frozen onions, and a not-very-wrinkled bell pepper. No bacon or sausage, but a sealed pack of sliced ham that should be workable. He chops it all up and makes two big omelets with it, and makes and butters a big stack of toast.

Steve wanders in as he’s finishing, and sets the table; then he plops down into his own seat and watches intently as Danny slides an omelet from the pan onto his plate. He takes some toast as well, and digs in.

Danny’s halfway through his own food when he realizes Steve’s not eating. Hoping he looks less alarmed than he feels, he stabs a stray piece of pepper with his fork and prompts, “we good?”

But despite his worry, Steve just nods and smiles, almost dopily. “Yeah. Just. Why is breakfast food the best? It’s the best, Danno.”

“I’m the best. I made this breakfast food.”

“I know.” Steve starts eating again then, and finishes most of it. Afterwards, he loads the dishwasher, even though Danny tells him not to bother, then handwashes the frying pan for good measure. Danny sits on the counter and watches him rinse.

“Hey,” Steve says, as he dries the pan. “I was thinking—I was really hoping to go for a walk. Just a short one. You could come.”

“Oh, I could come?”

“Half an hour,” Steve coaxes, putting the pan aside and turning towards him. “Taking it easy today was exactly what I needed. But I just—I just want to get out of here for a minute, y’know?”

Danny huffs. “You know, in Jersey, if you were walkin’ you were walkin’ _to_ somewhere.”

“I just want to move around a little.”

“Fine. Guh. You know I almost made it, spending the entire day in pajamas. Almost!”

Steve’s mouth twitches as he seems to process the truth of this for the first time—then he looks down at himself and actually laughs.

“Oops.”

“Oops.”

“Still wanna go out?”

He nods.

They traipse back upstairs and trade their pajama bottoms for comfy shorts; then, because Steve wants to, they go walking, just for fun.

It’s a humid evening. They’re quite literally _walking_ , not even that fast, but soon sweat is prickling at the small of Danny’s back; he looks over at Steve, ready to start complaining. But Steve’s got this serene expression on that stops Danny in his tracks.

“Better?” he asks, instead.

“Mm.” Steve smiles. “Man, it just—it clears my mind, you know?”

“I feel like it always makes me think too much.”

“Everything makes you think too much, Danno.”

“Why do you say that?”

Steve doesn’t catch it for a second, but then he laughs.

Danny doesn’t really pay attention to where they’re going; Steve ought to know the way back, he assumes, even though Steve seems just as distracted. He’s _wandering_ , Danny realizes. Looking at the trees, looking at the sky, with a weird little smile ghosting over his face, and Danny doesn’t think he’s ever seen the guy look so—purposeless. He didn’t think Steve would be so happy about that.

“You said half an hour,” Danny reminds him, when twenty or so minutes have passed.

“Mm.”

“Twenty plus twenty’s forty, babe. You ready to head back?”

“Yeah,” Steve hums, and they turn left at the next street.

Back home Danny heads for a shower. Steve doesn’t, which leads to Danny calling him an animal, which leads to Steve reminding Danny that he is used to both heat and exercise and he didn’t really break a sweat anyway.

Danny flips him off, turns towards the hall bathroom. But before he can actually leave he feels a hand on his arm, and he turns back around, right into a big bear hug.

“Thanks, Danny,” Steve whispers. “For today.” He drops his head onto Danny’s shoulder and they hug for a solidly long moment before Steve pulls away.

“You good?” Danny asks, and clears his throat when it comes out kind of croaky.

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “I’m good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work quoted, as I mentioned last chapter, is _Eleven_ by Sandra Cisneros, who is better than I'll ever be and would hopefully be amused, and not disturbed, by my use of her work in this story!

Danny doesn’t sleep much (what a surprise) but apparently he does sleep at some point, because he wakes up to his alarm.

At first he just lies in silence, trying to still his nerves. The dreams were bad last night; not actually about Matty or Reyes, but some murky milieu full of the disquieting, the unexpected, the vague. He sees his mom at his grandmother’s funeral. Sees murky water and bleeding fingernails and the first man he ever killed without a gun.

That he’s going to see Grace soon is the only reason he can pull himself upright. Even then, after doing so, he has to sit another few minutes with his head in his hands, thumbs in his eyes, fighting the urge to—

To what?

Quit the force? Slink back to Jersey? Eat his fucking pistol? No, Jesus, nothing that dramatic, just—float away. He sits there with his eyes closed and fights the urge to sit there with his eyes closed forever.

He wins, at least for now. Drags himself out of bed and to the bathroom, does his stuff, then knocks on Steve’s door before he fully knows what he’s doing. Making sure Grace is still welcome, ostensibly. But probably not quite that, if he’s being honest.

It’s getting harder by the second to deny that he’s needed this Steve-time as much as Steve seems to have, somewhat surprisingly, needed a big dose of Danny-time. And why the fuck shouldn’t they both? The last few months have been a whole new level of hell and they both just need a little time to heal. Or, if not heal, then _cope_. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds. But it is easier—even just the slightest bit—with Steve at his side. So that’s that.

But as Danny slips inside Steve’s room, he realizes in an instant: it’s not his turn right now. Not his turn to be a wreck.

As much improved as Steve looked yesterday, he looks awful now; his face is pale and pinched, and Danny doesn’t know if it’s pain or something worse, and he doesn’t know how to ask. Instead he just perches on the edge of the bed, pats Steve’s hip.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve croaks. He’s curled up on his side; the bed’s a mess, blankets strewn and two corners of the fitted sheet popped off. There’s a couple of crumpled-up tissues tossed on the floor.

“Bad night, babe?”

Steve hums a non-reply. He rubs irritably at his forehead, his nose; Danny’s feeling a bit intrusive by now, like maybe Steve wanted to wash his face and make his bed before actually being seen this morning.

“You still up for having Grace around?”

Oh, that helps though, _visibly_. Steve’s whole aura lightens, and he flops over onto his back. “’course.”

“Okay. I’m gonna go get her, then. Said I’d go early as I could, since she usually stays Friday night.”

“Okay.”

“Figured I’d pick up some groceries on the way. Grace’ll want mac ‘n’ cheese for lunch, an’ dinner—you want soup and sandwiches? Or you wanna get pizza?”

“Give me, like, one more day before we try pizza,” Steve grunts, and Danny snorts a laugh and pats him again as he leaves.

*

He’s ahead of schedule, so he get the groceries before he gets Grace. It works out, and he arrives right on time to find Grace sitting on the front steps, grinning, bouncing her knees next to her school backpack and her overnight bag. With a wave to Rachel through the front window, they’re off.

It is _so good_ to have Grace with him that, by the stupid logic of human emotion, Danny is suddenly even more tired than he was. He feels okay now, feels like he could sleep for a week. Wonders if Grace will consent to a lazy day, movies and milkshakes, but offhand it doesn’t seem like this will be the case. Far from annoyed to be spending the weekend at Steve’s, Grace is thrilled. Can’t stop talking about the beach, about swimming and eating outside and watching the sunrise tomorrow morning.

And seeing Uncle Steve, of course.

A few more turns and they’re getting pretty close; Danny rubs the steering wheel with his thumb, thinking about how exactly to say what he needs to say now. Grace needs to be primed on the situation, before they arrive. She’s been conditioned, with good reason, to think that time with Uncle Steve automatically means physical activity; and even besides that, he doesn’t want her caught off-guard. She’s been so sensitive since Matty died, is all. Mostly she keeps it in—that’s the British in her, Danny supposes—but this is the first time she’s had a family member die who wasn’t old and sick, and it’s shaken her badly. She’s texting Danny constantly throughout the day, even more than she used to. Last week when Rachel had a stomach bug, she called Danny sobbing, asking if he thought her mom might have cancer.

What kills Danny the most is, it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have thought of at her age.

“Hey, Monkey?”

“Yeah, Danno?”

“I just wanted to let you know, before we get there. Uncle Steve—he’s fine, okay? But he got hurt, a couple of days ago.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re staying with him.”

“Right. Right. I just wanted you to be prepared. He will be _one hundred percent fine_ after he heals up a bit. But for right now—he’s feelin’ kinda crappy. So just, be mindful.”

“Crappy like how?”

“He’s got a concussion, so his head’s really hurting, and sometimes he feels, y’know, kinda nauseous.”

“Okay.” Grace knows about concussions; her best friend got one last year, playing soccer.

“Besides that, he’s just really sore. Bruised. He’s gonna try to hide it, probably, but don’t ask him to move around too much. His doctor said, next two weeks, no working out, no running. And no swimming. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Grace says, though her smile has definitely dimmed. It makes Danny’s heart ache, but what can he do? If there’s one thing he’s been slapped in the face with recently, it’s that he can’t protect her from the awful truth: nobody’s invincible.

They get to the house, park behind the truck. Grace gets her bags and Danny gets the groceries, and they let themselves in, keeping quiet in case Steve went back to sleep.

Steve did not go back to sleep.

Steve, with the timing probably only he could fucking achieve, is sitting on the sofa, shirt off, changing the dressings on his burns.

Grace gasps. Steve’s reflexes are fast as ever as he pulls his shirt back on, but it’s too late. Grace has seen the state of his chest. And even with the shirt on she can see the bruises on his arms and neck, and the black eye, and the two nasty gashes on his forehead: one stitched, one held with butterflies.

Grace bursts into tears.

Her bags hit the floor and then she’s scrambling onto the sofa, throwing her arms around Steve’s shoulders. “You’re really hurt,” she whimpers. “Uncle Steve, you’re really hurt.”

“Aw. It’s not that bad, Gracie, don’t cry,” Steve murmurs. (Though Danny’s pretty sure all three of them feel like doing nothing but, at the moment.) “I’m gonna be fine. It’s really not so bad, hey, don’t cry, sweetheart.”

Grace only hiccups and burrows closer, too young to contain herself but too old, now, to believe the friendly lie of _not so bad_.

“I’m even better now you came to visit. And you let me borrow Danno for a while. You’re the best.”

“Sorry,” Grace sniffles, pulling back. “Sorry. Danno told m-me—he told me so I’d know—I didn’t m-mean to freak out—”

“Hey, it’s fine. C’mere, si’down.” And he wraps an arm around Grace’s shoulders as she curls up at his side and wipes her eyes. “Everybody freaks out sometimes, Gracie. And I know I look kind of scary right now.” That gets him a watery giggle.

“You don’t look scary, Uncle Steve.”

“Well, Danno says I always do. But I think he’s jealous ‘cause, you know.” With his hands, he mimes their height difference. “Listen, sweetheart. It can be hard, seein’ people hurt. But I’m okay. Your dad saved me. Hm? Danno saved me. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Grace whispers, and any part left of Danny that wasn’t already mush turns to it now.

“Okay. So try not to worry, okay? He looks out for me and I look out for him, and we’re both pretty good at it.”

“I know.”

“Good. I gotta finish up putting this bandage on, so why don’t you help Danno with the groceries, and I’ll come in in a minute?”

Grace nods and scrubs her eyes again. She hugs Steve, a bit more carefully this time, then gets up from the sofa and retrieves her bags, moving them to the foot of the stairs. Then she and Danny go into the kitchen.

As promised, Steve joins them a few minutes later, and from that moment on, Grace never gets farther than arm’s length away from him. It might make Danny feel kind of jealous—if he weren’t so busy feeling stupidly cozy.

And it’s not like he’s excluded. First Grace ropes Steve into showing her some kitchen chemistry, which he does with gusto; Danny sits on the countertop safely out of the splash zone and supplies helpful commentary. Then it’s mac ‘n’ cheese for lunch. Grace watches Steve’s limited consumption with a frown, and insists they all rest for a bit after, which means cuddling up on the sofa with Grace in the middle, watching the latest hit romcom. (Danny gets in trouble for laughing; Steve doesn’t.)

And it occurs to Danny, for the first time, though it should have long ago: Grace loves Steve. Steve loves Grace. Neither of them loves the other only as an extension of their love for Danny, but properly, like a little girl and her favorite uncle should. It gets at Danny’s own heart, seeing his daughter and his closest friend like this. Steve’s a real uncle, and thank God Grace ended up with at least one in her life. One Danny managed to rescue.

After the movie Grace gets lost on her phone; normally Danny would tell her to put it away and interact, but he’ll let it slide for now. She’s curled up almost horizontally. Her head’s on Steve’s knee, her feet in Danny’s lap, and he’s not going to do anything that might make her move in the slightest. So they sit this way a while. Steve finger-combs Grace’s hair and Danny rests his hand on the back of Steve’s neck, thumbing gently at the healing puncture wounds.

The rest of the day slips by just as easily. They hit the lanai for sandwiches, then a few games of Yahtzee; then a little TV, and they’re all in bed before ten.

*

Danny wakes up with tears on his cheeks and something awful in his throat; he hurdles to the bathroom and hunches over the sink, coughs and gags against the blockage until finally he can breathe again. Then he splashes some water on his face and perches on the edge of the tub.

He’s shaking head to toe now, and his mouth tastes like puke, though he’s pretty sure he saw nothing but spit in the sink.

Funny how many varieties a shitty night can take. Yeah the nightmares are more common, or the full-on, never-really-rest insomnia, but this happens too. It’s the fourth or fifth night like this, since Colombia. And before that, long before that, there were nights like this, almost exactly like this, just with saltwater and sand instead of oil and rot, and his mom there to comfort him. Now he’s only got his own arms, hugging tightly around his waist.

God, he really wants his mom, is the thing, or not even necessarily his mom but _somebody_ , somebody to just hold him and talk him through this, and the fact that that’s not going to happen makes him want to cry again.

Too tired to fight it, he gives in this time. Sits on the edge of the tub and weeps quietly into his hands, until finally apathy wins out over the sadness and he stands, washes his face again and goes back into the hallway.

Steve’s bedroom is the master. Grace is in Mary’s old room, which doubles as a library but still has a bed in it, for the rare occasion that Steve has more than one guest. Danny’s in Steve’s old room, which is between them.

Standing in front of his door he tries to reach out through the darkness, reach out with his heart and feel his daughter, and his best friend, under the same roof as he is, safe and sleeping. Thinks about how grateful he should be for that.

Thinks about how neither of them would probably mind (or at least not mind too much) if he crawled into bed with them for the rest of the night, but in the end he doesn’t.

But he does stand there a long time.

*

Danny wakes up to a text from Grace that she’s already up, and has gone downstairs. He has to smile at that. It’s not that he’d _really_ worry, if he realized she wasn’t in her bedroom; common sense can still muscle its way past the anxiety, most of the time. But it’s nice of her to think of it.

Danny takes his time getting ready; despite how bad of a night it was, he’s actually feeling pretty okay. If today goes like yesterday, his heartrate might actually dip into the double digits. This is what he’s needed, and badly: Grace, and Steve, comfort food and lazy days.

He finally gets downstairs sometime around ten. Steve’s eating toast and eggs on the sofa, and Grace is sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by—homework?

“ _Grace_ ,” Danny says, evenly. “You said you didn’t have homework this weekend.”

Grace smiles sheepishly. “Well.”

“Well?”

“I kind of do have some, Danno. But not much, I promise!”

Danny pulls a face at Steve. “This girl. My daughter! Tells me yesterday, _no, Dad, I don’t have any homework this weekend_ —”

“Because how often do we get to spend the Saturday with Uncle Steve?” Grace shrieks.

“Often!” Danny shrieks back, but then he laughs, and Grace laughs, and Steve just stares at them looking pleased and utterly bewildered.

Grace is kind of smirking as she sits up, cross-legged. “I’m done my book report.”

“Your _book report_?”

“And that was the only big thing!”

Danny rolls his eyes, plops down besides Steve and swipes a piece of toast.

“I don’t have science, and math’s gonna be _easy_. So it’s just a little math, and this short story I have to read and reflect on for LAL.”

Danny tries to steal more toast, but Steve’s out, so he sulks and tries to muster the energy to get up and make his own food.

“What are you reading, Gracie?” Steve asks, grinning at Danny.

“It’s by Sandra Cisneros. Have you heard of her?”

Steve shakes his head. Danny leaves them to discuss as he goes into the kitchen and makes himself toast, then comes back and sits in the armchair so Steve can’t steal it.

“Grace is gonna read it to us,” Steve announces, as Danny starts eating.

“My teacher wants us to read it out loud, because we’re—analyzing the difference between poetry and prose. And this story kind of does both.”

“Okay,” Danny consents, though it sounds like the kind of assignment that always made English his least-favorite subject. Steve, on the other hand, actually looks excited. Of course he does, the doof; big bad Navy SEAL he might be, but in truth he’s turning out to be a humongous softie. Somebody who adores hugs, and walks for no reason, and eating breakfast for dinner. Why wouldn’t he like being read to?

“Okay,” Grace says, eyes flicking up to her audience. “Eleven. By Sandra Cisneros.”

“ _What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven._  
  
“ _Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three._  
  
“ _Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is._  
  
“ _You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is._

“ _Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two_ —”

She’s interrupted, then, by a big, grown-man-sized sniffle.

Danny looks over to Steve. Grace is looking too, and Steve scrubs the tears from his cheeks, forcing a watery smile under the tender scrutiny.

And Danny can’t even laugh, though another time he might have. Can’t laugh because how fucking broken is Steve, how fucking _shattered_ is he, that he’s _weeping_ in front of them, at a not-even-that-sad story from a sixth grader’s homework?

“Sorry, Gracie,” Steve mumbles. “Guess ’m just feelin’ three, huh?”

Grace hesitates, but only for an instant. Then she puts her packet aside, goes and kneels on the sofa so she can get her arms around Steve’s neck and shoulders. “That’s okay, Uncle Steve,” she whispers. “It happened to me yesterday, remember? It just happens sometimes.”

Steve’s chin buckles. He screws his eyes shut and pulls Grace to him, tugs her into his lap and sits there hugging her while fresh tears splash thickly onto the back of her t-shirt. The bright pink fabric darkens with wet spots.

“Grace, maybe give us a minute alone?” Danny suggests. He’s not sure who he’s protecting, but it doesn’t matter because Grace just glares at him and hugs Steve tighter. Steve’s rubbing her back now. For his part, he couldn’t’ve looked more vulnerable, more opened up if he’d pulled the actual heart from his chest and were holding it cupped in his hands.

“’kay, monkey,” Danny breathes. “You stay with this monkey’s uncle, you’re gonna cheer him up a little? Okay,” he says again, when Grace nods fiercely. Danny heaves himself up and goes over to them, kisses Grace on the top of her head and, after half a second’s thought, kisses Steve on the top of his, too.

Then he goes. He could pretend to be making Steve tea or just getting him water but he doesn’t do anything, just leaves, because neither of them are really paying Danny much mind and Danny himself just needs to get out of there for a minute. Needs to be in an empty room, needs to breathe alone. Needs to stop thinking about Matty before he starts crying his eyes out too.

Time passes.

Footsteps break through Danny’s melancholy, and a conversation starts to register:

“We won’t go in the water, we’ll just sit out—”

“We should still ask your dad’s permission—”            

“For me or you?”

“Both,” Steve laughs, as they come into the kitchen. Grace leads Steve in with one arm looped through his. She’s got her determined face on and he’s smiling, unsure of himself and a little bit shy. His nose is pink, eyes still wet around the edges.

“Danno,” Grace says, drawing herself up a little. “Can we go on the beach? We’ll be careful.”

Being thrown so suddenly back into the conversation gives Danny some sort of existential whiplash, and he blanks, groping for anything to say that might make half-decent sense. “Uncle Steve’s gonna try to go in the water,” he croaks, eventually.

“He’s not!” Grace yelps, at the exact time that Steve waves a hand impatiently and huffs out, “I’m _not_.” Then they look at each other and laugh.

“I won’t let him,” Grace concludes.

“You won’t let him? How will you stop him?”

“I’ll tickle him if he tries,” Grace says, bless her middle school logic. Steve nods.

Danny rubs his eyes, back _with it_ but not quite back under control. “You’re gonna do your homework out there?” he mutters.

“ _Yesss_ , Danno.”

“Okay, fine. Fine. Wear sunscreen,” Danny adds, and Grace gives a little bounce. They turn to go.

“Wait!” Danny calls. Grace lets go of Steve and looks back with a curious expression that makes Danny feel selfish and stupid. “Can I have a hug?” he gets out, and Grace bounds back and leaps into his arms.

She hasn’t let him pick her up in years. It’s—well, it’s not as easy as it used to be, but it’s wonderful, and Danny rocks and squeezes her so tightly she gasps out a giggle. He doesn’t know how long it takes before he can put her down.

When he does he finds Steve staring at them, looking startled and sad, like he’s forgotten an important birthday. He lurches to Danny’s side, hugs him close. As Danny sinks against him he feels Grace wrap both arms around their waists, hugging as a trio, and Danny will never quite know how he doesn’t start sobbing then and there.

Eventually Danny wiggles free. He shoos Grace and Steve out of the kitchen and stands there, listening to them thunder upstairs to get ready, then smiling at them as they pass him to go outside a few minutes later, toting towels, in t-shirts and bathing suit bottoms. He watches out the window as they spread their towels on dry sand.

He tries to snap himself out of it, then, with some boring, quotidian things: he does the dishes, puts in laundry, wanders around a little. It’s a moderate success. At any rate he feels okay enough that he thinks he could handle going out on the beach as well, so he changes into grubby clothes, grabs a book, and joins them.

He finds Steve asleep. Like, lost to the world asleep. Grace at his side, waves in the background, he looks so damn peaceful it makes Danny want to cry again. Grace is cross-legged beside him, scribbling in a math workbook. She smiles when Danny comes over, but doesn’t talk, pointing to Steve like Danny has somehow missed the big figure stretched out, snoring a little, on a beach towel six inches too short for him.

Beached SEAL, Danny thinks, absently.

A giant beach umbrella lives in a corner under the lanai— Danny’s pretty sure it’s only arrived in Steve’s life since he did— and he wrestles it down to the beach and sets it up with Steve and Grace in its shadow. Steve twitches at the change in light. But he doesn’t wake, just curls up on his side and sleeps on.

He sleeps so long that Grace finishes her homework and falls asleep beside him, so long Danny has to move the umbrella twice to keep them safely in its shade. So long Danny himself dozes a little, sprawled in his chair. And when Steve finally wakes it’s only to grunt in disapproval at the umbrella, shift until he’s in the sun, and fall asleep again.

Grace, who woke up a short while ago, laughs at this. She lounges a few minutes more, then gathers her school things and announces her plans to go shower off the sunscreen.

Not long after this, Steve wakes for real. He stretches with a grunt, noting Grace’s absence and Danny’s presence in the same swooping look as he surveys the scene. He says nothing, just sits up, facing the ocean.

Danny can’t see his expression, but by posture alone he looks lost and kind of lonely. Absently he dips his fingers into the sand.

Danny plunks beside him. He doesn’t let himself hesitate, just wraps Steve immediately in his arms; he’s sleep-heavy and hot from the sun as he sinks against Danny’s body and buries his face in the curve of Danny’s neck.

“I didn’t scare her, did I?” he whispers. “Dan?”

“You didn’t scare her, babe. She don’t scare easy. Sure didn’t get that from me.”

“Thanks for letting me see her.”

“Hey, that’s okay. You slept a while, huh?”

“Could sleep more.”

“You’re not sleepin’ too good at night, are you?”

Against Danny’s shoulder, Steve shakes his head.

“Yeah. How you doin’?”

Steve sits back. “Embarrassed. That just—kind of hit home.”

“Why?”

It doesn’t seem like Steve was really expecting this question, and he tilts his head as he thinks.

“You know, it’s ridiculous,” he says, at last. “It’s— it’s pathetic. But I can’t shake it, this miserable little voice, you know, keeps going, why’d he hurt me? Why’d he hurt me? It felt so—it felt so personal. And it’s not. He’s a criminal. I’m Five-0. Opposite teams. But—for the love of god, Danny, it’s like I’m four years old and somebody pushed me on the playground. I’m— I’m—”

“Scared?”

“No. It’s not scared.”

“Shaken?”

“I guess.”

“Upset?” Danny suggests. Steve smirks.

“That makes it sound even worse. Anyway. I dunno.”

Steve had told him, at the hospital, about his mother and Wo Fat. So it was personal, in that way. Still there’s something Steve isn’t saying.

Danny stretches dramatically, just for the hell of it. “What time is it?”

Steve, fucking Steve, looks at the sky and declares it to be around two. Danny sighs, manages not to comment.

“Lunchtime, then?”

“Mm.”

“Sandwiches again? Pizza for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, sounding not quite enthused but not actually opposed.

“’kay. I’m gonna get the stuff together—you gonna stay out here a little longer?”

“Yeah.”

“But not going in the water.”

“No.” Steve smiles. “Not goin’ in the water, Danno.”

Danny gets to his feet with a grunt, leaves Steve to whatever contemplation he’s finding necessary. He manages to stave off his own long enough to flip the laundry and put out sandwich stuff. Then it sort of catches him again, and he finds himself back in the kitchen, watching Steve watch the ocean.

Little footsteps enter behind him. Grace comes over and joins him in frowning out the window for a while. When she finally speaks she sounds quiet, but decades older than she is. “Danno?”

“Yeah?”

“Uncle Steve’s been hurt before. But this time was different.”

Danny let’s himself sigh. “Yeah. It was, monkey.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I don’t think I’ve figured that out yet.”

“Okay.” She falls silent again. Then: “Danno?”

“Mm.”

“If you want to talk about Uncle Matt, you know I’d listen, right? Uncle Steve would too. I know you’re sad. You don’t have to act like you’re not.”

Danny coughs against the lump in his throat, brushes a hand through Grace’s hair. “You’re mini Dr. Phil today, huh? No, I’m just kiddin’, monkey. You’re the best. But don’t you go tryina take on my problems, okay? Or Uncle Steve’s. You’re a kid, be a kid.”

“I’d still be a kid, Danno,” Grace pouts, and Danny smiles. “I just thought—we’re ohana, right? You’re both so sad, and I just wanna help.”

“You help,” Danny tells her, pulling her against his side. “You help so much, monkey, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too, Danno.”

Steve comes back in then, and they eat. The afternoon goes by with another movie, and a nice long walk, and pizza. Then too soon, as always, it’s time to take Grace back to Rachel’s.

Probably the only thing that gives Danny the strength to drive away, is the fact that he’s not going back to an empty house.


	3. Chapter 3

Danny gets back to find the dishes done, and hear the shower running upstairs. He should probably start getting ready for bed as well, but instead he plops on the sofa, willing Steve to finish quickly and come keep him company.

Luckily Steve always showers fast. Soon he comes downstairs, curls up at Danny’s side and nuzzles into his shoulder; his hair’s still wet, and a tepid dampness seeps into Danny’s shirt.

So he doesn’t notice the tears, at least not at first—not until a couple quiet sniffles break the silence.

This weird thing happens in Danny’s chest, like his lungs are too big for his ribs; it’s been happening a lot around Steve, lately. “Hey,” Danny murmurs. “Still got some left?”

Steve snorts. “Guess so. Dunno how.” He wipes his eyes, then slides forward on the cushion like he’s going to stand up, but he doesn’t. Just hunches there, elbows on his knees. “Danny?”

“Mm?”

“Is it always—so hard? After she goes back to Rachel’s, not having her around?”

“Yeah,” Danny admits, softly.

“I’m sorry, Danno.”

“Hey, stop—what are you doing?” Danny slides forward too, even with Steve, just in time to see one fat tear roll down his cheek. Without thinking Danny thumbs it away. “You’re takin’ on too many things. Let’s be sad about one thing at a time, okay?”

Steve huffs softly. “That’d be a relief.”

“Hey. Hey. Can you talk to me, please? It’d probably help.”

“It probably would,” Steve admits, with an unhappy smile. “But Danny, you—you—you gotta understand, buddy. I don’t know _how_.”

“So don’t talk about how you’re feeling. If you can’t then don’t. Talk about what you’re thinking, an’ if the feelings come, they come.”

Steve considers this for a long, quiet moment. “Thinkin’ about my dad,” he says, finally, in maybe the smallest voice Danny’s ever heard come from his mouth.

“Thinking about your dad.”

“I miss him.”

Danny nods, and when Steve seems to need some encouragement to keep going, reaches over and squeezes his knee. Steve smiles. It’s still pretty unhappy, but there’s less bitterness to it now.

“Can’t believe it’s been four years, y’know. Thinkin’ about him, and—I’m thinkin’ about Cath. And—and Deb—she called last week. She’s gonna visit later this month. We’ve been talkin’ a lot, you know, like twice a week, maybe.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s good but, y’know, it’s—I know she’s decided to try treatment, but—”

The sentence trails off, and Steve just lets it disappear. He rubs his fingertips over the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, visibly exhausted from sixty seconds of actually putting things into words. Danny gets an arm around his back.

“Listen to me, babe—are you listening to me?”

Steve laughs a little, nods. He drops his hands to dangle between his knees.

“I love you. Okay? I love you, and Grace loves you. And that’s not even talkin’ about Chin an’ Kono an’ all them. We love you. You got people, babe, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Okay.” Danny shakes Steve a little, forcing himself to smile. “You looked sad but now you just look constipated. Head botherin’ you again?”

Steve snorts. “T’be honest, it never really stopped.”

“Since?”

“Since Tuesday,” Steve admits, and Danny sighs.

“That sucks. I mean, I think I’ve had this headache since ’98, but five days, that’s bad enough.”

Steve’s eyes flick up, lock with Danny’s; they both manage a genuine smiles.

“C’mere,” Danny huffs. He pulls Steve sideways, into a big bear hug, and maybe it’s cliché, but Steve hugs back like his life literally depends on it. Like he’s drowning and been thrown a life preserver. Danny holds him as tightly as he dares, arms coiled around Steve’s shoulders and waist, face pressed into Steve’s hair.

“I gotcha,” he soothes, pretty sure Steve’s crying again. That seems to be a thing that happens now. “I have you, babe, you’re okay.”

They stay this way until Danny feels Steve’s hold loosen a little, his belly stop hitching. Then Danny pulls back, sits with just an arm around Steve’s waist.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Bed now. You wanna camp out on the lanai? Seems like the waves help.”

“’snot the waves,” Steve mumbles, and sniffs.

“No?”

“It’s—somebody bein’ there.”

“Oh,” Danny replies, automatically. Then, again, “ _oh_. Steve, Wo Fat’s dead. He really is.”

“No, it’s not about feeling safe, it’s—I feel kind of unreal sometimes? Having somebody there, it keeps me grounded.”

“Right.” Danny nods. “Smooth.”

“Huh?”

“There are easier ways to get me in bed, you know. Historically dinner’s worked. Getting kidnapped, it’s kinda dramatic.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Stop. Don’t get all fussy. You tell me you have an easier time sleepin’ with somebody there, fine. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut with relief. “Thanks, Danno.”

“Don’t mention it. Let’s get ready, huh?” Danny pats his back as Steve gets to his feet with a grunt, and they both shuffle upstairs. Danny gets ready in the hall bathroom, then goes into the master bedroom.

And honestly he should probably find this weird, but he doesn’t, not after everything else. Besides, he doesn’t think he could sleep any worse than he has been, so maybe it’ll help him too. He crawls into bed, taking the right side, slipping between the cool cotton sheets and sighing reflexively as a little of the tension leaves his spine. Steve’s still puttering around in the bathroom as Danny curls up, facing center, and closes his eyes.

A few minutes later he hears the bathroom door open and shut, then Steve’s voice, solid against the hum of the air conditioner. “You ready for lights out, buddy?”

“Mm.”

On the other side of his eyelids, the world goes dark. Then the bed shifts, and Danny opens his eyes to find Steve curled up at the opposite edge of the bed, facing away. He snorts, quietly.

“You better lie on your left, babe,” Danny advises. “Or else that pizza’s gonna repeat on you.” When Steve doesn’t reply, he continues, “your stomach’s on the left of your body, you know, so you gotta, like, cradle it. You lie on your right, you’re holding it upside-down.”

Steve peeks over his shoulder.

“Come on,” Danny says, dropping the pretense. “This bedfellows thing ain’t gonna help anyway if you keep doing the slinky puppy act. Let’s just own it.”

Steve makes a sort of clumsy production of rolling over, then, which Danny might have called _cute_ were he referring to anyone else. Same goes for the way Steve’s smiling, kind of embarrassed but not unhappy.

“You’re a doof,” Danny informs him. Steve replies by curling up tight on his side, forehead pressed to Danny’s bicep, fingers curled around Danny’s elbow. “Mm-hm. Now you’re all about it. Go to sleep, Steven.”

“Night, Danny,” Steve murmurs. His breath moves the hairs on Danny’s arm.

“Night, doof.” In the dim light from the window he sees Steve close his eyes, and he does the same.

But tired as he is, safe as he feels, Danny can’t sleep. It’s a common refrain, and nothing he’s not used to; still he feels a little stuck not being able to get up and go watch TV. Worth it, though. Steve blinks out like a light in under five minutes, and seems to sleep deeply, his only movement being to snuggle a little closer as time goes on, until his head is more or less on Danny’s shoulder. Apart from this he doesn’t even twitch.

For the first hour or so, anyway.

When Steve wakes he wakes with a sob, eyes and mouth flying open. For a moment he just lies still, suspended; then he sobs again, and tears begin to pour down his face.

“Whoa, hey,” Danny breathes, already sitting up, pulling Steve closer. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Half upright, Steve has his head pressed against Danny’s sternum now; already his tears are soaking through Danny’s shirt.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, honey. Had a bad dream? It’s okay, you’re okay. You want the lights on? No? You want some water?”

“No, I—” Steve moans, dragging in phlegmy breaths. “I wan’— _I want my dad_.”

“Aw, babe.” Danny doesn’t fight the tears that come trickling, now, down his own cheeks. “I know. I know. But I’m here, okay? I’m here, hey, just hold on to me. Hold on to me, Stevie.”  

And he does. He _clings_ , because if there’s one thing Steve McGarrett can do, it’s follow an order. He clings, and hides against Danny, and cries his goddamn heart out.

Danny waits it out. Just holds him at first but eventually ends up cradling Steve’s head in one hand, using the other to make soft, slow strokes along Steve’s arm, until finally he’s not really crying anymore, just doing that stammery hiccupy thing like when your lungs don’t really remember what it’s like to not be sobbing.

“That’s it,” Danny murmurs, as Steve manages a steady breath. “That’s it. You’re okay. Let’s lie down, yeah? No, it’s okay, babe, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Because Steve—on his own life, Danny swears this— _whines_ when Danny moves even just a little, so Danny eases them down together, never letting their bodies separate. Eventually he lands on his back. Steve’s on his side, curled against Danny’s chest with one hand on Danny’s belly, legs tucked up against Danny’s thigh.

It’s mindless. It’s childish, in the most heart-rending way, and Danny can’t help but think about Grace’s story again—the way you grow old is like the little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other. Danny’s not sure if this is the one on the very inside or not, but it’s definitely getting close. All the bigger ones, all the fearless, badass ones have been cracked open like clamshells and tossed aside. Absently Danny thinks about how this probably used to be Steve’s parents’ bedroom. He wonders if Steve ever curled up between his mom and his dad in his same room, thirtysome years ago, cried and clung like has tonight.

He kind of doubts it.

Steve’s head is tucked under his chin, and Danny turns his head to let his breath move Steve’s hair, to give him one more bit of proof that he isn’t alone. But Steve, thankfully, seems to be sleeping.

Danny just holds him, feeling his arm go slowly numb, watching the tiny shafts of moonlight coming in the window creep across the floor and, at long last, disappear.

He thinks about talking to Matty. Thinks about talking to God, but in the end he just sort of lies there and listens to Steve breathing.

*

It’s just getting light out when he hears Steve rousing. He snuffles, pawing a little at Danny’s hip while he comes fully awake; Danny can feel when he does, because he goes still all of a sudden. Gingerly he takes his weight from Danny and turns over, facing away.

Without Steve’s warmth, Danny shivers. He bends his stiff elbow, and his arm explodes with static.

Steve moves again, still carefully, like maybe he thinks Danny’s sleeping; he gets his feet on the floor before Danny speaks.

“You’re just gonna—”

“Gotta pee,” Steve replies. He rolls his head to look at Danny, flashing a tired smile. Danny scowls back and Steve snorts as he gets up, goes into the bathroom. Pees, blows his nose, washes his hands, from the sound of things. Danny waits to hear the shower go on, to hear Steve closing himself back up completely—but it never comes. A minute later Steve returns, crawls back into bed.

He stretches out next to Danny, on his side but not tucked up like before; he’s still kind of touchy, though, sleepily tactile, and he reaches over and thumbs Danny’s sleeve. “Your, uh, shirt dry yet?”

“Only just.”

“Thanks. For last night, Danno. Man, I dunno what’s gotten into me.”

“Well, the doctors had some theories, but I don’t really remember the names.”

Steve takes his hand back. “Yeah. That’s gotta be it. I feel so—mm. I dunno. I don’t feel like myself.”

Danny catches Steve’s eyes for a moment, then lets him look away.

“So.”

“So?”

“Steve, I know there’s something you haven’t told me. And I’m wondering, you know. I’m wondering if it’s got to do with—why your dad’s been on your mind so much?”

“Mm.”

“Don’t hum at me. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, but at least acknowledge, please.”

“Yeah,” Steve rasps. “It’s got to do with that, yeah.”

“You might honestly feel better if you told somebody.”

Steve sighs. He rolls onto his back, but does it so he doesn’t get any farther away from Danny.

“Some of the stuff they gave me, it, uh. It made me hallucinate.”

His voice is steady but in the dim light Danny sees that his hands are fluttering, uncharacteristically fidgety.

“Not like melting walls, tripping hallucinate. It was almost like an alternate reality. It was—very real. Like so real, man. You were there. It was four years ago, right after I came back to O’ahu but it was—mm.” He pauses. “My dad was still alive. Hesse hadn’t killed him. I saw him—I _saw him_.”

Steve’s voice breaks, but when Danny looks over his eyes are dry.

“I hugged him. I talked to him, I sat out by the water with him, and Danny, man, it was _so real_. Even now it—it all feels more like a memory than anything else. And it wasn’t just once, you know, they kept putting me back under. I was in and out a couple of times, between him being dead and him being alive, and I just—I got lost, you know?”

“Yeah,” Danny murmurs. “That’s a lot.”

“The thing is. You know how there’s—they say there’s stages of grief? Different things that go into it? You know what I always get stuck on? Denial. Not denial like, I don’t believe it. But denial like, it’s not instinctive. It’s not body memory yet. I know damn well he’s dead but I don’t—I don’t default to that. For months after he died, for _years_ , I’d think about him like he was still around. Like there was this world that he was still in, like I could _go_ there because it was right next door. I know that—doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” Danny croaks. “Babe, it does.”

“It faded, eventually. Mostly. I still felt it sometimes but not as much. But now—I feel like I’ve been to that other world, that alternate reality, it was so _real_ , it was right _there_ , and now—I feel like I’m back to square one. To day one. Like four years never happened and it’s like—it’s like I just lost him again, Danny. I don’t mean like it hurts the same because, man, it’s _always_ hurt the same. I mean—I just lost him again like—it’s back to not making sense. I’m back to not remembering. I’m back to thinking, like, thinking without meaning to, _hey, I haven’t called Dad in a while, hey, I should catch up with him_. You know? _Hey, I wonder if I’ll see him at Christmas this year_. I just—I can’t believe he’s gone. Literally, sometimes, I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah.” It’s all Danny can get out. He sits up, folds in on himself, and feels Steve sit up beside him.

“You okay?”

“No.” It feels wrong, crying over Steve’s grief when Steve himself is not, but fuck it, not sorry, because he’s fucking grieving too. He really did just fucking start. And a full twenty-four hours without sleep, watching his best friend break down—three fucking times—it’s not a recipe for composure.

Steve puts a hand on Danny’s knee, rubs with his thumb. “That’s me talked out,” he says, quietly. “You wanna take a turn?”

“No,” Danny chokes, scrubbing his face with both hands. “Jus’ miss him.”

“I know.”

“And I— I hate this.”

“Yeah.”

“I hate it, Steve.”

“I do too, buddy,” Steve murmurs. He gets both arms around him, and Danny curls against him, too tired to have the breakdown he thought was coming but too tired as well to stop the flow of silent tears.

They stay that way a while. Danny cries himself out before too long but he can’t bring himself to pull away; curled up here, with blankets and with Steve, he feels safe, and not just from harm. Safe to feel all his ugliest feelings, too. And Steve doesn’t seem to mind. So they rest there in the silence, watching the sky lighten out the window.

Eventually Steve grunts, shifts beneath Danny’s weight. “Okay, then,” he says, and coughs a little.

Danny sniffles, rubs leftover tear goo from the corners of his eyes; his head hurts and his whole face feels puffy. “Okay.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Steve says, accepting this without a fight.

Danny sniffles, nuzzles, massages his face a little more; then finally he peels himself away from Steve’s side.

Steve yawns. “You texted Chin, right?”

“Mm?”

“That you’re takin’ today too? It’s Monday.”

“I know. Did last night,” Danny rasps. Then he looks over.

In the pink, growing light, Steve’s smiling crookedly. “Okay. Hey, I’m gonna get some coffee on.”

“How you feelin’?”

Steve snorts. “Better, actually. No headache this morning. Appetite’s definitely back, like, I am _starving_.”

“You’re still not allowed to go swimming.”

“No swimming. Conceded. But can we go out? Just for a bit? I want cocoa puffs. They’ll just be opening now.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m driving.”

“Undecided,” Danny grunts. His head’s sloshing a little.

“How are you feeling?”

“Eh. Didn’t really sleep.”

“Let’s do coffee, then cocoa puffs on the beach, and when it gets hot out, we’ll take a nap.”

“That’s the most reasonable thing you’ve ever said.”

Steve gets up then, spends a few minutes in the bathroom and changes into shorts and a sleeveless shirt. He goes downstairs while Danny takes his turn.

Danny feels better with his face washed and his teeth brushed, better still when he makes his way out of Steve’s bedroom and the scent of coffee slips around him. He finds Steve in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hands. Danny leans beside him, drowsy with post-cry haziness, wrapped in a feeling thick and heavy, but soft. Painless. It leaves him weak and shaky but improbably calm. He drinks some of the coffee Steve hands him but then, before too long, puts it aside and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around him. “Let me drive, huh? I actually slept.”

Danny’s close enough to hear the rumble in his chest as he speaks, and he turns to press into the feeling, letting his eyes slip shut. “If we die getting cocoa puffs I will not forgive you. You understand this?”

“To hear you talk, I’ve risked my life for less,” Steve teases.

They don’t die getting the cocoa puffs. They have a perfectly uneventful drive—which, for Steve, is actually kind of an event in its own right—and before Danny knows it they’re back on the beach, reclined in their respective chairs. There’s a box of ice cold cocoa puffs between them, and a paper bag of other pastries besides.

Steve eats two ham and cheese rolls, then works his way through six— _six_ — cocoa puffs. Danny counts. He also notes, with some mixture of fondness and dismay, that Steve has a sort of method for eating them, likely unchanged since he was a little kid. First he nibbles a hole in one side. Then he sort of _slurps_ out the chocolate pudding, before munching the rest of it in two or three bites.

God help him, he’d die for this idiot, Danny think, sleepily.

Danny himself eats three cocoa puffs, gobbling the first one but making the second and third last. It’s getting pretty warm out by the time he’s finished.

Steve gets up stiffly from his chair and takes the rest of the food back inside; when he comes back out he doesn’t return to his chair, but goes to the water’s edge, and plops onto the sand. The next wave that comes in splashes his feet, creeps up near his calves.

It’s automatic, by now, joining him. Danny kicks his sneakers off and goes and sits at Steve’s side.

Steve smiles over at him, looking actually kind of okay. “I was almost afraid I wouldn’t like the water anymore,” he says, thoughtfully. “Not because of Thursday. Because of the, you know.”

“The waterboarding?”

“Shouldn’t’ve worried.” Steve leans back, bracing himself, elbows locked. “I couldn’t ever—I could never not love it.” He pauses. “I’ve had multiple nightmares about cattle prods, though. Which is—pathetic?”

“Not pathetic.”

“ _Cattle prods_.”

“With which you were electrocuted.”

“Yeah. What the fuck was up with that?”

Unexpectedly, Danny feels himself laugh.

“What?”

“I love it when you say _fuck_ ,” Danny snorts. Steve’s frown eases into a smile.

“Was it a cattle prod last night, babe?”

“No.” The smile disappears. “I’ve been having dreams about, you know. Dreams inside the world from the hallucinations. I wake up an’ it’s like—it’s happening all over again. I’m so ready to put this in the rearview, man. I guess it doesn’t really work that way, though.”

“Not so much,” Danny agrees.

Steve sits forward again, and goes quiet for a while—so long, in fact, that Danny almost startles at the sound of his voice.

“We were sitting right there,” Steve murmurs. He gestures vaguely, back towards the chairs. “Right on this beach.”

“In your dream?”

“Yeah. Just me and him, talkin’ about nothing. And it’s just— in that moment it’s like— all the pain. All this pain that I— that I’ve been carrying around for _four years_ — it’s gone. It’s gone. ‘cause my dad’s home _._ And when I wake up and it’s not— it’s not true— it’s not a place I can go— Danny, nothing’s ever hurt so bad. In my life. I— _gah_.”

Danny gets an arm around his shoulders, but Steve doesn’t let himself be held. Doesn’t let himself cry openly like yesterday. Instead he sits with his hands to his eyes, trying to smother his grief like a flame. 

“Hey,” Danny whispers. “Talk, huh?”

“You-- you can laugh at me,” Steve bleats, “all you want, but I’m not— I am not used to _feeling_ this much. Honest to— honest to God I think— I think I’m— not designed to— hold it all.”

“Nobody is, babe,” Danny soothes, jostling him a little. 

“Oh my God,” Steve moans. “I just—I think I’m falling apart, Danny. I really do. I just can’t stop _crying_ , man.”

“I mean, that’s grief, babe.” Danny shrugs with his free arm. “I bought a new toothbrush last week. Cried when I threw out the old one.”

Steve finally looks at him then. His face is blotchy, nose streaming as effusively as his eyes. “I feel like it’s all I’ve done all week,” he says, quietly, and Danny just wants to wrap him in a blanket and hide him somewhere safe.

“Well,” he says instead, “not all week. But definitely the last twenty-four hours or so.”

A laugh bubbles up between the tears. “Fuck off,” Steve says, softly.

“You fuck off.”

“Good comeback.” Steve leans in a little, then a little more, and Danny tightens the arm he’s got around Steve’s shoulders. Steve sniffles quietly. As much as Danny got the feeling last night that Steve needed to let go, he gets the feeling now that Steve needs to be in control, so that’s all he does: no soothing, no rubbing. Just keeping his arm there.

“Hey,” he says, when he feels like Steve’s got a lid on it again.

“Hey.”

“How’s your stomach?”

“Fine. Why?”

“‘cause you’re supposed to wait, like, an hour after you eat, to have an emotional breakdown.”

Another laugh, and this one lasts a little while. 

“Especially when you eat like four thousand calories of pure butter,” Danny adds, as Steve, still chuckling, rests his forehead against Danny’s shoulder. “Might as well have gotten a stick out of the fridge and taken a fork an’ knife to it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve groans. “Well, I _wasn’t_ queasy, ‘til you said that.”

“Can we nap?” Danny interrupts. “You promised we could nap.”

Steve raises his head, bearing puffy eyes and a smile that makes Danny think that, in another universe, Steve McGarrett would have been a genuinely happy guy. “Yeah. Breakdown over.”

“For another five minutes.”

“For another five minutes.” Steve wipes his face on his collar and gets to his feet, then offers Danny a hand. Danny lets himself be pulled up. 

They go inside, crawl into bed in t-shirts and boxers. Steve tries immediately to spoon, but Danny pushes his arm away. “’s too hot,” Danny grumbles.

“The AC’s on.”

“Still hot.”

“I’m beat, man,” Steve huffs, relenting, for now. “Don’t wake me up for dinner if I sleep straight through.”

“You say that like I’ll wake up for dinner,” Danny replies. And even though that’s all a bit of an exaggeration, it being not even eleven, there’s still something impossibly soothing about it: about the thought that he has nothing to do, all day, but lie here at Steve’s side in this soft bed, in this quiet room.

There’s a tickle on his shoulder blades. Steve’s leaning his head there, getting as close as he thinks he can without being told to back off again, and Danny, without really planning to, reaches back and drags Steve’s arm around his waist instead. Steve hesitates.

“Thought it was too hot.”

“Fuck it,” Danny sighs, curling into the curve of Steve’s body. “You’re a wreck, I’m a wreck. Let’s just own it.”

Steve laughs. Then he spoons against Danny, tucking him closer, and fuck it if Danny doesn’t feel so safe and so loved that he just sort of collapses, closes his eyes and lets all the breath leave his body. Already he feels awareness fading.

They don’t sleep through dinner, though they sleep for most of the afternoon. It’s not quite four when Danny’s bladder wakes him. He goes and pees, then doesn’t think twice about getting back in bed and cuddling up to Steve again.

When Steve cuddles back, Danny realizes he’s up too.

“Bes’ nap ever,” he slurs, and Danny snorts.

“Bet you could count on your fingers how many naps you’ve taken in your life.”

“Mm.”

“Hey, how’s your stomach?”

“Danno, I love you, but can you stop fussing about that?”

“I wouldn’t, if you hadn’t eaten half a dozen cocoa puffs.”

“I have a fast metabolism.”

“Fine, but it’s the first day in a week you’ve had an appetite! You’re supposed to ease in!”

Steve laughs, then rolls away a little, onto his back. “So. Uh. You going to work tomorrow?”

“Guess I should, huh,” Danny sighs.

“Be honest. It’ll be less stressful than lookin’ after me.”

“Well, that goes without saying. Work’s only stressful ‘cause you’re usually there. You won’t be, so.”

Steve flashes a smile, but it fades quickly as he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from Danny. “You staying for dinner, or headed home now?”

“Huh?”

“I assume you’d rather wake up at home tomorrow, if you’re going in.”

To most that would probably sound casual, even offhand, but Danny’s not most, and he sighs. “First of all. First of all, stop, because in the past few days I have cuddled you more than I’ve cuddled any of my girlfriends probably ever, so don’t sulk.” He gets a little laugh at this. “Second of all, could you not take it personally that I, a grown man, paying a fucking mortgage, might want to sleep in the house where I am paying said mortgage.”

“I’m not taking it personally—”

“You are so taking it personally! That I would want to wear a fresh pair of underwear and shower with my own damn shampoo! Your shampoo is _so cheap_ , Steve!”

This earns him a better laugh, and Steve flops back onto the bed and mugs up at Danny.

“Don’t do that face.”

“What face?”

“It’s like a— an _I-know-you-love-me_ face.”

“You do love me.”

“I hate you,” Danny reminds him, but that only makes Steve smile again. Danny sighs.

“And fucking third of all,” he adds, “no, I’m not going home tonight, because I don’t fucking want to be alone either, Steven. I’ll just run home before work tomorrow, and fuck it, even if I don’t stay over tomorrow night I’ll probably come for dinner. So.”

“So.”

“But I’m sleeping in the guest room!”

“Why?”

“Because I know you, and you are a fucking lap cat, and if I let this precedent get set—it’ll—set a precedent!”

“Okay,” Steve consents, though Danny’s not sure he believes him.

“Okay. What’s for dinner?”

“Cocoa puffs.”

“You ate all your cocoa puffs! Those last three are mine!”

Steve just mugs some more, and Danny whacks him (gently) and goes down to the hall bathroom to brush his teeth, because this was one of those long naps that might as well have been a regular sleep.

Steve wanders in before he’s even finished, and sits on the edge of the tub.

“Why?” Danny groans, after he’s spat.

“Why what?”

“Why did you come to watch me brush my teeth?”

“I didn’t, like, specifically come to watch you brush your teeth.”

“You missed me? After thirty seconds?”

“So what if I did,” Steve replies, and Danny, who was expecting, well, something other than that, thinks he might blush a little.

“We still never figured out dinner.”

“Didn’t we?”

“Sandwich stuff’s gone. We never ate the soup.”

“Too hungry for soup.”

“Okay. Breakfast for dinner?”

“Oh,” Steve groans. “French toast. I want French toast.”

“And eggs?”

“Of course.”

“Do we have bread?”

“Don’t think so,” Steve replies, stretching. He grunts as he does so and it echoes a little off the shower walls. “We’ve made a lot of, uh, regular toast.”

“Okay. Off to the store, then—look at us! Two outings in one day.”

“Both for food,” Steve laughs. “We gotta be careful.”

“Thought you said you had the world’s best metabolism.”

“Then you’ve gotta be careful,” Steve laughs, then gets to his feet and heads out of the bathroom. Danny washes his face, then gets some fresh shorts from the guest bedroom. He goes downstairs to find Steve at the front door, jangling the keys impatiently.

And Danny probably blushes again, because when Steve sees he’s ready, he _grins_.


End file.
